


A:drift

by yeonglo



Category: B.A.P
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Angst, Betrayal, Blood and Torture, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, First Love, Friendship/Love, Lifelong Romance, M/M, Pillow Fights, Pirates, Romance, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 01:56:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5315927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeonglo/pseuds/yeonglo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Love him,”</i> said Chilo, <i>“so, as if you were one day to hate him; and hate him so, as you were one day to love him.” </i></p><p>Junhong often wished he could have had alternatives to the choices he made — a chance of keeping the ones he loved safe, of saving a few more people and deceiving a few less. But things went as they were supposed to go, and given the opportunity, he wasn’t sure he would have done any differently.<br/>For all that had been said and done, and after all the time that had passed, it was surprising it was the sole thought of Youngjae that still kept him restless at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A:drift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nezhaley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezhaley/gifts).



> Hello :)  
> First thing first; this plot is almost three year old. Yes. I've had a multitude of drafts for it, until I recently decided I'd just scrap it all and completely rewrite it. And thanks to [Bikki's](http://chawans.tumblr.com/) continuous support, here it is! Special kuddos to Choco and Kat, too, who had kindly beta-ed my first two (awful) drafts back in 2013. ♡ Let's just say I hold this story very close to my heart. ;)  
> I hope you will enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
>  **Additional warnings include:** an awful amount of fluff and cuteness at times, lot of tragic angst, a bit of gore, a disgusting lack of hygiene, and (not really but a bit of) rough sexual practice!
> 
>  

Many, many years ago, in England, there used to be a surprisingly lively (considering its number of inhabitants — or lack thereof) village named Hurtlepool. The town was set on a forgotten path down and along a stony cliff, far off on the northwest coast, where its small population lived on their own, almost cut off from the rest of the world — an ironic thought, considering they lived on the edge of an ocean.

Trade and commerce was difficult business as the closest noteworthy town to sell their goods was miles away; too far to bring any consumable product for selling. But what little money they made at the Salestown’s market was spent wisely on the development of everyone’s well-being, and what they couldn’t buy, they produced themselves.

As the village was so small, all and everyone knew each other on quite familiar terms (and if by chance no genuine affection was held between two families, at least their tones remained cordial,) but some heroes were most famous amongst the small community — and thus was Choi Junhyun. The man was an attentive husband to his lovely wife, and a fair parent to his only son; but those were titles he rarely tended to compared to the times he spent as the Captain of the marvellous, if not a bit squeaky, _Dailies_. The brave Mister Choi spent most of his time at sea, and the rare months he spent aground mostly constituted of trips between the capital, London, and their little hometown; to his son’s immense dismay.

Choi Junhong, most commonly known in town as “ _The Little Choi_ ” due to his tiny figure that contrasted greatly with his father’s broad frame, was a bright child, though a bit too foxy for his mother’s liking. He enjoyed running, playing with wooden sticks, and swimming. He didn’t really like the company of the other few children his age — maybe was it, as the other housewives frequently whispered under their breaths, because of all the time he spent on the Dailies when it was anchored at the port she belonged in.

“This is no environment for a child,” they often said to the poor Miss Choi, “Ships are dangerous places for the little ones.”

“Fear not, sisters, I believe he is perfectly capable of handling some ropes at his age.” She always answered, though the worry in her eyes usually betrayed more than what she would let out.

Mostly, Miss Choi believed that even if she tried, the damage was already done — her beloved son fell in love with the same ship that always had been her rival, and she now had no way to keep her progeny away from the sea.

How right she was, she only fully knew when her husband came back from the capital some months later.

 

The summer season had been mostly uneventful for the townsfolk in Hurtlepool — the long days came and went the same as they always did; the faune lived carelessly on the outskirts of town and flore blossomed all over the creaks of the old stone houses; the heat only being kept bearable thanks to the fresh breeze the waves brought to the shore.

If someone had asked Choi Junhong what he thought of that, he’d have told them it was the most horrifically boring summer ever, but unfortunately he had lived many more before, and had reluctantly accepted the fact there would be many more in the future. He was, however, unbelievably thankful for the presence of the _Dailies_ in town.

He spent the whole season on the ship — he ran to her first thing in the morning, and left her with small, resigned steps every late nights; as his mother still wouldn’t let him sleep in his father’s temporarily inhabited cabin. His days were spent mostly exploring the various levels of the argosy, fixing what little breaches he could fix of the beautiful construct, toying around with the ropes and cannonballs, and tending to anything he could tend to aboard.

Most of his father’s crew, originally from other independent villages along the northwest coast, went back to their respective hometowns to enjoy what little free time they had with their families; and some others accompanied the captain to visit the important people of the capital. Those who stayed in Hurtlepool (the natives of the town and those who simply had nowhere else to go,) sometimes visited him on the ship. They complimented him and his skills, showed him new tricks and made him go through the best practices. They promised him a bright future once he inherited his father’s ship, already picturing him as the greatest captain the Mother sea would have ever seen.

Lovely words those were, indeed. But words they only were and of course they would remain; and bitterness ate at Junhong’s soul like acid as he remembered all those times he could only watch as his father sailed away from him and his mother, leaving him hopelessly stuck on the shore, stuck in this ridiculously small town, stuck in this lanky body of his.

 

His father only came back from his activities in the capital when the first dead leaves fell from their trees — and he came back with great news, he told the family as soon as he passed the threshold of their charming home.

Junhong, as per usual, threw himself out of his chair at the dinner table and climbed directly into his father’s arms, taking little interest in the man’s initial announcement in this typical way children often do.

“It’s about you, son.” He said as he bent down to make the young boy sit back on his chair. Once he did, he set himself next to him, and finally met his wife’s worried eyes.

“What is it?” She asked, voice faint.

“I am to leave again for a trade in Bengal, dear, under the order of the Minister. And as the boy,” he glanced toward Junhong briefly, bringing a hand into the young lad’s hair, “is turning twelve next month, he will be able to join.”

Junhong felt the air leave his lungs all at once, suddenly unable to say nor do anything, just helplessly gaping at his father. The man met his gaze for a brief instant with a smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners, fingers twitching in his boy’s hair, as though he would ruffle it but did not quite dare to.

As the house’s mistress let out an audible sigh, all his senses seemed to come back rushing to Junhong — of course, his father’s opinion should have been the one weighting the most in the outcome that’d lead him toward his fate; but because his father was an honest man, and mostly because he spent so little time aground that he needed someone else to take decisions for the family there, his mother’s judgments always primed.

The boy turned wide, terrified eyes toward her, hoping they would convey all that he was feeling. She wouldn’t look at him though, staring at her joined hands carefully folded on her laps, apparently deep in thoughts.

“He’s coming of age, Eunyoung.” His father finally stated after a few beats of heavy silence.

“He sure is.”

“We always knew this day would come.”

“We sure did,” Miss Choi agreed, sourness piercing her unusually agitated voice.

And nothing more was added in Junhong’s presence — he was dismissed to his room, left alone to prepare himself to sleep as his parents probably argued over his future downstairs. What they said, he couldn’t know, only picking up muffled whispers and hisses once at a time — he eventually fell asleep as the sound of a thin rain hitting his window lulled him, effectively covering what little noise he could have made out from the kitchen.

 

 

In the end, it was not much of a surprise he woke up to the smell of freshly baked pie, just as he did every Sundays — because as the monsoon always faded back to sunny days, his mother’s pies always replaced stormy evenings.

With a heavy heart, Junhong got dressed with the same clothes he always wore on Sundays — his brown pair of pants, and a white shirt with an embroidered collar his mother had sewn for him; then went down to the living area to greet his parents. Although the silence was not uncommon between them, the ambiance in the room felt distinctly different from the apparent normality of the day.

“Good morning, mother, father,” he muttered, standing in the middle of the living room, waiting to be invited to take a seat with either of them — with his father on the couch, or at the dinning table near his mother.

“Good morning, Junhong.” His father extended his two long, muscled arms toward him, welcoming him in a warm embrace, before picking him up and making him sit on his laps. This, too, wasn’t actually unusual — his father proved to be very loving to compensate for the average ten months a year he spent away from his offspring — on that Sunday however, Junhong couldn’t qualify the act as anything but strange.

The boy watched over his father’s shoulder as his mother washed dishes in the kitchen, surveying the cooking pie in the oven with only half of her attention as she seemed mostly focused on a patch of grease on her favourite porcelain spoon. He didn’t expect her to turn toward him so soon after posing the utensil back on the wooden counter, though, and felt a shudder run down his spine as her glassy eyes fell on him.

“Good morning, Junhong,” she echoed his father, but her voice seemed off, way farer than the few meters separating them, “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, mother, I did.”

“Good, son.” She let out a huff of air which formed a high-pitched hum, a happy sound; it would have been music to everyone’s ears on any other days.

Junhong twitched in his father’s hold, ready to bounce off the walls as pressure built inside his chest. He didn’t know what conclusion to make from his parents’ act, and was absolutely at a loss regarding how to bring up the topic to them. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait too long before his father noticed the spasms of his legs, and set a reassuring hand on it to soothe the boy.

“She accepted,” he declared, voice low enough for his wife not to hear over the sound of her dishes clashing, “but please give her some time to get used to the idea.” Mister Choi marked a pause then, taking in his son’s wide, amazed eyes, and the bright twinkle of hope in their pupils. He patted the boy’s leg two times, encouraging him to stand up to go to his mother.

Junhong did, crossing the length separating him from the kitchen in two quick leaps, before slowing down when he reached his mother, suddenly unsure of how to proceed in order to thank her.

And so he did as he did on the most special Sundays — he wrapped his thin arms around her hips, pressing his cheek to the small of her back, and strengthened his hold around her frame. He felt a strange surge of relief when he felt her hand join his on her stomach, and let his eyes flutter closed. At this time, he believed all would be fine.

 

And fine things stayed, until Junhong found himself standing on the highest part of the deck, watching his sobbing mother’s figure become ridiculously petite as the _Dailies_ sailed away from Hurtlepool’s port in the steady rhythm that was so characteristically hers.

The boy knew that sunlight always replaced rain, just like long winters always came after hot summers; but of all those things that were “ _Always_ ” to preserve the grand scheme of the universe, he couldn’t have guessed war was what came after leaving the peacefulness of a small, forgotten town. 

 

*

*      *

 

  
Junhong never doubted life aboard wouldn’t be easy (what could be pleasant, after all, about living amongst burly men with poor hygiene) but he didn’t expect it to be so grim.

He was pretty sure all started when he found a dead rat in the corner of the sleeping quarters; alarmed by the state of the decaying carcass, and afraid for everyone’s well-being due to the obvious lack of healthiness of the situation, Junhong alerted the men on deck — _“A dead rat!”_ he had screamed, _“There’s a dead rat in the quarters!”_ — and found himself bewildered to see most men laugh at him, though some simply looked annoyed and went back to work.

“It’s all right,” his father explained, “These things happen on a ship. Just throw it aboard.”

 

But nothing was all right anymore — gone were the promises of a bright future and few words of encouragement from his father’s crew; in their place came the degrading names and terribly cruel jokes. Junhong was treated poorly by the other members of the crew, what with their insulting behaviours and recurring brutality; and his patience was running thinner as he grew colder, as he tired, as he starved.

Then came the boredom. No one would give him anything serious to do and so Junhong saw his days being filled with unintelligent tasks such as sweeping the deck or keeping watch of the cargo hold; two activities no one would ever call actually formative.

After six months had passed, Junhong stopped counting the dead rats he had thrown aboard, the strains of poo he had wiped from the floor, or the hours he lost crying in his hammock — he kept wearing the rookie tag with scandal, but it was normal, wasn’t it? To be bullied on your first trip aboard, to be the shameful newbie, even if your father was the grand, the courageous, the massive Captain Choi.

 

Junhong had, however, never been one to give up, and how could he when travelling through the seas had been a dream of his since he took his first breath of salty air. Therefore, what he couldn’t change he accepted, but what he could do better, he learned; he grew out of his childish innocence at the same terrific speed he grew out of his clothes, and by the time Spring conquered the Indian Ocean, _Little Choi_ was well on his way to become a teen.

In retrospect, the fact no one on the _Dailies_ seemed to notice how much he had changed before their journey through the bay of Bengal came to an abrupt end was merely one more thing to blame Junhong’s misfortune for.

 

Junhong had, of course, learned of pirates before. He had heard some of their stories, whispered worriedly by the housewives back at Hurtleport, explained strategically by his father, barked in between guffaws when the crew men conversed late at night. But those were merely stories, and no matter how vividly detailed they were, no narratives could have prepared Junhong for the day the lookout called every hands’ attention to the black flags appearing in the offing.

The weather wasn’t exactly the best — it was raining lightly, the drops bringing down a chill with them, the sky was dark and gray, and the horizon was difficult to perceive because of the thick fog rolling off the waves. But in the middle of it all, two black flags attached to the highest masts of the vessel could be discerned far off in the mist, the ghostly silhouette of a huge ship merely visible.

Junhong, who had left his chores to perch himself against the wooden railing of the _Dailies_ , tried to squint to make out more of the adversary ship — he was entranced, to say the least. The barge was the biggest one he had ever seen; and although stories were told about how impressive his father’s argosy could be, the beautiful merchant ship could have never rivalled with the majestic lines of its opponent’s.

 

His father came running to the quarter deck, though he did not seem especially dreadful. The entire crew stared at him with a stern sense of trepidation in their eyes.

“Everyone, stay calm!” He ordered, firm voice efficiently anchoring everyone’s attention to him. Then, to the lookout, he asked, “What can you see of their ship?”

“It’s the _Bloody Greed_ , Captain, the _Bloody Greed_.” The man hissed back.

And all control over the hand men was lost — the crowd that had gathered on deck broke into a blur of motions, as some went to ready the cannons, and others prepared their weapons for the fight.

The captain didn’t bother guiding them, didn’t yell any orders to them; his eyes found Junhong immediately, the young boy still gripping the rampart tightly and looking completely lost amongst the stampede of men. He didn’t think before grabbing him by the shoulders, and pulling him away from the ship’s edge.

“Junhong, I want you to go hide into the bilge. Whatever happens, don’t come out!”

“But, father, they—”

“Right now, son. Go!”

The boy barely had the time to realise this was the first time he heard his father raise his voice at him before he was thrown in the direction of the ladders leading to the quarters. His father grabbed a man running past him and gave him a personal order, which the hand answered with a nod, before he turned his attention fully toward the upcoming combat — his voice thankfully loud enough to pierce through the din the hands were making by running around.

Junhong did not move from where his father left him though, simply standing, watching with concern and a little amazement as the crew ran in and out the bunker with pistols and other steels — it was his chance, he thought, to mean something. To prove them all he could be apart of the crew as a worthy member, that he was not just some landlubber that got accepted aboard because he was the brave Captain Choi’s son. He was a person, too, well on his way to be a man, and he would prove them.

 

He chanced a glance toward his father — who was still anxiously roaring orders, trying to deflect the boat to another direction where the winds and waves would be in the favour of their hull’s smaller size — before hurrying to get a weapon.

Junhong still hadn’t found anything sharp enough, nor even remotely intimidating, to defend himself by the time the _Bloody Greed_ caught up with them and threw roped anchors to keep them close.

He heard the fearsome chant of the pirates before he could see anyone on the monstrous ship’s deck — and once he did, the boy was pretty sure the image would be burnt in his retina until the day he died. The men, or rather, the beasts, were clumped against the bulwarks of their huge warship, weapons anywhere where they could fit to keep their hands free, and watched his father’s crew with vicious smiles.

 

The _Dailies_ fired its cannons first, but Junhong merely caught his father’s hurl of _“Reload!”_ before the _Bloody Greed_ riposted. Where the pirates’ vessel merely rocked back under the strength of the impact, the merchant ship suffered from severe damage because of the sole attack. A huge part of the deck was destroyed, some parts of its railing actually went down in the sea, and Junhong heard one of the hands scream in pain — he was probably dead now.

All Junhong could do was stare as the heathens broke into a mess of ecstatic laughter and threw themselves on his father’s ship. He thought _“this is it, this is the end,”_ but none of the pirates actually paid any attention to him, not even sparing him a glance as they all came running and pushing past his small frame.

Bullets started flying over his head, forcing him down as the sound of his own blood pumping in his skull muffled the battle’s roar. Men wearing his nation’s colours dropped all around him like flies, and with them went their weapons — Junhong rolled on his side to grab one of his fellow crew member’s forsaken pistol, and still laying on the floor, aimed for one of the savages’ head.

Unfortunately though, the poor boy had never had the opportunity to learn how to use guns before, and still lacked the necessary force to restrain the gun’s recoil; the momentum of the blow surprised Junhong more than it hurt him at first, but the shock quickly let place to a dull ache in the entirety of his limb — and all of this for nigh, since, expectedly, he had missed his target.

Cursing, the boy let the gun fall back down on the floor and ran to take refuge behind the ship wheel, merely a few feet from the door of his father’s cabin. He perked from behind the huge wheel, leaning against its mount, and from his elevated point of view, he could see the pools of blood staining the deck, the dismembered bodies dispatched all over the floor, and Junhong felt a wave of nausea hit him — after all, he had never seen the visage of Death before.

 

Junhong’s adrenaline reached a peak, his mind screaming at him to _do something, anything._ Breathing heavily, he turned his head away from the battlefield and let his eyes wander on the wall of his father’s cabin, before noticing the lamp hung up on it. It was of the simplest fabrication — just a candle covered by a dome of glass, held together by wrought iron; but it was enough.

Junhong threw a quick glance around him to assure himself he wasn’t in immediate danger of being shot, before standing up and launching himself up against the wall. Junhong jumped as high as he could to reach the dome before throwing a fist at it, merely remembering to cover his face as he fell back on his feet, glass shattering all around him.

Checking the broken chunks on the ground, he realised they were either too thin or too short to cause any harm, and therefore had to jump again to grab a piece still held by its support — accidentally cutting his palm open in the process. But the pain was nothing compared to the animal instincts that animated him then, and as soon as Junhong had retrieved the broken fragment he had been looking for, he threw himself back onto the main deck.

The child ran in-between the men who were still courageously fighting with all their might, leaping over dead bodies when he couldn’t avoid them, and eventually found himself in the midst of the battle. Junhong looked around, searching for a heathen to kill, and let out an animalistic scream, gathering all the rage and determination he was feeling in his war cry when he saw a pirate about to impale one of his father’s man with his sword.

Without any further thinking, Junhong pounced toward him and jumped on the broad’s man back, securing his position with one arm around his buff neck. On the off chance he could suffocate him, the boy first tried to strangle him, but his efforts were vain and his enemy proved to be robust in his effort to shake him off — Junhong then found himself at a loss for options, and grabbed the man’s hair, making his head tilt back to the side and exposing his neck.

The boy raised the piece of broken glass into the air weightlessly, as though he wasn’t in control of his own body anymore, and watched it go down through the savage’s skin with some kind of twisted awe. Blood first spurted out of the wound, splashing both his face and the splinter with thick, warm droplets, before a torrent flew out and steadily slithered down the man’s torso. Exhaling his last breath, the pirate fell to his knees on the deck, letting Junhong the opportunity to get back onto his own feet with grace.

 

He took a second to watch, dazed, the heathen’s eyes slowly empty themselves of life, feeling his still hot blood stream down his face, before his senses came back to him. Letting his eyes roam around to find anyone else to kill, Junhong met his father’s own pair set on him — he was staring at him with an overwhelming sense of honesty, gaze reflecting all of his emotions like an open book; and yet all the boy could see was terror and incomprehension, rather than the pride he would have expected.

A crippling shame swept through him as he saw the grand, the marvellous Captain Choi take a slow, deep breath, raising his head to the gray skies and closing his eyes in a silent prayer for his boy. Junhong suddenly felt two strong hands grab both of his arms painfully; his surprise was such that he gasped and let go of the broken piece of glass, his only mean of salvation.

“Ye’ damned brat!” He heard the man behind him howl, at the same time his father screamed in despair, “No! Junhong!”

Fear took over him and made him spasm, waggling and kicking, helplessly thrashing around to free himself from the deathly grip around him. He heard his father call his name one last time and looked up toward him, his tear-filled eyes preventing him to make out much of his father’s expression as he watched his little boy being thrown overboard.

 

Junhong didn’t realise what was happening. He felt an agonising blast of pain spread through him as his body collided with a hard surface, and he could only faintly register the thickness of the air around him as he was dragged down by an invisible pull. He kept his eyes open all along — if it was by choice, or if it was because he couldn’t close them, he didn’t know — from the downfall to his sinking, and kept staring into nil, unable to think or fight for his survival.

His mind went completely blank and Junhong still couldn’t find the strength in him to panic, so he simply let his heavy lids slide close like they were begging him to. He vaguely perceived a wave rock his body and had the sensation that the ebbs and flows of the water around him were unnatural, as though something was moving with violence nearby and disrupted the quietness of the ocean. Giving up any chance he had of discovering what was so odd about the situation, Junhong preferred to surrender to darkness.

 

*

*      *

 

  
The first thing Junhong felt was his pounding head, which led him to try raising an arm to massage his forehead — he realised he couldn’t even budge a limb, for he was still paralysed by sleep.

A shudder he felt too weak to restrain ran through him, leaving in its wake a glacial feeling of discomfort; he also tried to breath deeper but only managed to choke himself on a cough, his throat protesting the burning rasp that came along with it.

Junhong kept his eyes closed but heard movement close by, yet no one talked. He didn’t question, his mind still in a hazy trance, unable to focus on anything for too long in fear of feeling his head imploding. All he knew was that he was laying on a bedding of the best sort, sheets feeling like silk underneath his lethargic fingers.

The air in the room was dense but cold, enhancing the unpleasant odor of tobacco and rum impregnated in the walls. Junhong frowned.

He tried once again to regain some control over his body, eager to finally know where he was — but as soon as his lids fluttered open, he had to squint to keep the dazzling light of the room out. Quick footsteps pounded over the wooden floor, hurrying toward the far end of the cabin (which the boy guessed was quite small), and the sound of curtains being pulled shut brought with it the darkness Junhong needed to open his eyes.

He let them adjust to the toned lighting in the room, staring at the ceiling for a few moments, before finally turning his head to the right, where he could barely discern the silhouette of the person that drew the curtains shut.

“Are you…” The stranger receded in his tracks, letting the question hang in the air, as bothersome as the reek of tobacco.

Junhong faintly registered he didn’t know that voice. Silence fell back on the room, only disrupted a moment later by the sound of something heavy being pulled back, making the wooden floor creak, and the ruffle of fabric as someone sat in it.

The stranger wouldn’t resume talking, and Junhong was unable to, so he let his eyes slide shut once more. 

 

*

*      *

 

When consciousness came back to Junhong, the stranger was gone; he could tell without even having to open his eyes. He cautiously propped himself up on his elbows, letting his head hang back heavily, before trying to sit up.

The boy slowly let his eyes roam around the room — it was small and clustered, but the furniture looked ancient and precious, all incised dark wood ornamented of golden threads. In front of him, Junhong could only see a desk, immaculate in its state of emptiness, as though it had never known the toughness of studies; on its side were sitting a set of impressive bookcases, fulfilled up their tops with neatly organised leathered books and parchments — and the improvised library took most of the available room in the left side of the cabin, along with a collection of various firearms in a display cabinet, a dresser with its assorted floor mirror, and a bright vermilion carpet.

Junhong turned his head toward the right, where two armchairs enclosed a short coffee table, yet all that caught his attention were the curtains, at least three times his height, probably hiding behind them windows equally as impressive.

Curiosity picked, the boy carefully got up from the bed and walked toward the gigantic pieces of fabric, pushing them agape with a hand. The set of bay windows that greeted him were the most impressive he had ever seen — they, too, were made of dark woods with handles of pure gold. They seemed to open on a very small balcony, surrounded by a wooden railing expanding to the skies with sculptures of half-naked women, who were gracefully supporting the ceiling hovering above the entirety of the platform. Junhong took a moment to admire the sun melting into the sea, colouring the horizon of its orange glow.

Where the hell was he? He was still at sea, that was for sure, but he certainly was not on his father’s ship. He realised its fate had remained unknown to him, and that he wasn’t even really certain of what was the last thing he remembered. There had been blood, pain, and darkness, and then there had been cold — yet none of those things helped him define what precisely happened.

 

Junhong rushed to the only door of the room, far off in the corner, near the bookcases, and stepped in the long corridor that appeared to him without a care. He ran through the obscurity, its path only sporadically enlightened by oil lamps and cracks in the walls, racing past the other rooms without chancing a glance at them.

He came to an abrupt halt when he heard footsteps going down the stairs in front of him; as his time ran short, Junhong had no choice but throw himself behind the wooden barrels cluttering the hallway, hoping they were huge enough to, and the corridor dark enough, to hide him properly. He re-opened his forgotten wound at his palm and hissed at the pain, carefully bringing the limb to his chest as though it could soothe it.

Junhong heard the man pass by the barrels, apparently not noticing him, and watched his silhouette retreating in the corridor the way he originally came from, engulfed by the darkness.

Cautiously, Junhong extracted himself from behind the barrel and tiptoed to the stairs — one set was going up, another was going down, but none seemed to lead to the deck; he chose to try descending lower in the ship, thinking his father would choose a dark spot the further away from his enemies to hide, too. Junhong ran down the steps, jumping the last fews soundlessly, before stopping dead in his tracks.

 

The bilge of the ship, which he had assumed would be just like on the _Dailies_ — filled with wood, iron and corn amongst various other commodities, had actually been turned into a dungeon. A dozen of cages made of thick _metal_ poles raising from the ground were aligned against two adjacent walls, and jealously held in their cold grip soon-to-be-dead men.

They were all clads of rags — one of them was even almost naked, his bones sticking out quite literally; but amongst the others, he didn’t look out of place. They all looked ill and lifeless, wounded and starving. Some of the prisoners had the strength to glance up toward him upon his arrival, but most of them stayed still, probably not finding the requisite energy to move a lash. They were almost all sitting on the cold ground, waiting for death to come release them.

Junhong quickly backed away in horror as one of the men, who had been staring at him quietly until then, whined lowly as though trying to ask for help, and raised his bony hand toward him. The boy staggered and almost fell against the stairs, but his instincts were screaming at him to run the farthest away possible from the overwhelming scenery, and he readied himself to jump out of the room.

He, however, didn’t have the chance to move further before hearing the same light footsteps from the corridor head toward him. Junhong frantically looked for a place to hide in the room — unfortunately, the cells that weren’t occupied provided little cover, and no wooden barrels or boxes were big enough to protect him. He took a step back from the stairs, his body shaking in fear as realisation sank in — the heathen was going to find him, and then he’d die.

The footsteps reasoned quietly through the room, an unnerving tapping to Junhong’s ears; the way he was going down the stairs, step by step, was painfully slow.

The boy first saw the stranger’s shoes — used, well-worn brown leather boots, ascending up to his knees; then his legs fully came into view, revealing his faded green pants which were slightly stained at the knees. Junhong took a look at his wide, white shirt, maybe two sizes too big for the other, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and improperly laced at the front, a huge patch of his torso skin showing. His shoulders looked broad and his neck was buff, yet the heathen still seemed young; his skin had an unusual childlike aspect to it, his round cheeks slightly pink, his doe eyes big and bright. He looked strangely innocent, and even more so due to the warm smile fending his pretty lips.

Junhong wasn’t expecting coming face to face with such a beautiful person, and couldn’t help but stare intensely into the other’s eyes, still unsure of his intentions — after all, wasn’t it said the Devil was once an Angel? Maybe this was all there was to it; a pretty face for him to get his guard down before the beast showed up.

 

His opinion was apparently shared by the other detainees, because a tension Junhong hadn’t felt in the room before took over the atmosphere; some prisoners, the ones who could still crawl, backed away from the metallic railings of their cages. Some whimpered, the agony lighting up their souls with a sole glimpse of the newly arrived man, and the scrawny man started sobbing in silence.

One tried to scream, in rage or despair, no one would know; his broken cry died down in his throat as soon as the stranger glared at him — he retreated to the other side of his cell, collapsing on himself like a wounded animal. The angelic-looking heathen turned back toward Junhong with the same bewitching smile.

“And there you are, runaway boy.”

A jolt of electricity pulsed in Junhong’s body, shaking him to the bone. He did not answer, nor did he move, staring back warily into the stranger’s eyes. He tried to keep control of his facial expression, trying to hide his fear, but how successful that was, he had no idea.

“I brought you dinner, in my cabin...”

Junhong still did not move nor answer, but was glad at least one of his question was answered — the golden room was the other boy’s, and he was also probably the person he found at his bedside when he woke up. Surprisingly, the stranger seemed to be made uncomfortable by Junhong’s silence, switching his weight from one leg to the other, as though he was scared to move, scared to see Junhong take to his heels again.

“I’m sorry,” he finally tried again with a small smile, “I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Yoo Youngjae.” He paused, waiting for an answer, and his smile wavered a bit when he realised he wouldn’t get one. Still, he pursued, “What’s your name?”

Junhong tried to reply, if only to make the other boy shut up, but his voice had left him long ago. He was left gasping helplessly at the air, mouth moving without any sound escaping them, growing more and more frustrated at his own weakness, before he simply let it all go in a soundless sob. His eyes started to water as he fought back against tears, already losing the battle against his own body; he shook, a full-body spasm jerking him in no special direction.

Visibly taken aback, Youngjae tried to approach him like he would a scared animal, palms up and back slouched making him look as unthreatening as he could. But Junhong wouldn’t let him get close, his trembling and yet deafening sobs wrenched out of his sore throat as a warning for the stranger — he was ready to latch out, even if he had to lose his life in the process. One of the prisoners winced in answer.

“Hey, hey now runaway boy, I won’t hurt you. I promise I won’t hurt you.” The elder’s voice came out pleading, a strange sound for such a dangerous opponent, Junhong thought.

The attempt to soothe him went to waste, if not made him even more jittery; yet the other boy did not give up on his calming words, looking back toward the stairs from time to time as though he was checking no one heard them. Junhong’s cries went back to the sound-level of sobs and whimpers, but he would still not let the other take a step toward him, growling lowly in his throat every time the boy made an attempt.

As Youngjae turned his head back to verify no other pirate was heading their ways, Junhong saw a chance to escape; he threw himself at the unaware boy, pushing him against the wall — his head hit it first, not hard enough to knock him out, but efficiently buying the lanky teen enough time to flee and rush up the stairs.

 

Youngjae was at his heels as soon as he fully understood what had happened, obviously trained to endure pain in battle. As soon as Junhong reached the top of the stairs, half-crawling the last few steps, he swerved toward the other set of stairs going up. But Youngjae was quick and nimble; well-trained and obviously used to this kind of situations — he managed to grab his ankle and yank him back down just as Junhong raised the floor’s wooden hatch of the upper-level.

The boy lost his balance and fell backward, landing on Youngjae. His momentum propelled them both into a sharp descent and they rolled down the last few steps to the floor with awfully loud thuds. Youngjae groaned as his temple bumped against the ground, disoriented for an instant; Junhong’s own head first landed on his thigh, which thankfully alleviated its chute, before it slid to the hard floor.

“Hide!” The elder suddenly shouted, startling him.

The boy tried to stand up but realised he couldn’t, his knee cracking in protestation — he let out a pleading moan, tears already filling back his wide, terrorised eyes. Understanding, Youngjae seized him by his armpits, effortlessly dragging him to a hidden spot behind the staircase. As if on cue, a gruff voice yelled _“Qué tal?!”_ through the hatch.

Youngjae wordlessly encouraged him to keep quiet by bringing one of his own dirty fingers to his mouth, firmly pressed in a line.

“ _Nada_ , Diego! Just slipped on the last step!”

An uncomfortable silence was all that met him for a long, interminable, moment, as though trying to prove the other man’s obvious skepticism.

“ _Ten cuidado,_ son.” Was the only answer they received before the hatch was shut anew, the light receding away from the corridor.

Once they were sure they were alone anew, and that no one was eavesdropping, Youngjae glared at him.

“You can’t go up to the upper-quarter, runaway boy, my father’s crew will cut off your head off and watch you bleed out.”

The remark, thrown so carelessly, made Junhong’s eyes snap wide open. A shiver ran down his spine, making his hairs raise in its wake.

“Let’s just go back to my room, and try to keep that pretty cakehole of yours shut.” The barbarian ordered.

 

Junhong didn’t protest when he was pulled up to his feet, neither did he when the other boy passed an arm around his waist to support him; he did not either when they started staggering side by side, hip rubbing against hip — he would have preferred not to upset the heathen after he gave him such a glacial command.

They managed to get back to the cabin with careful, slow steps; and once they reached the bed, Youngjae dropped him on the mattress. He let him re-adjust and sit more comfortably before settling himself down next to him. The proximity made Junhong twitch in distaste, but Youngjae didn’t look affected by his unrepressed disgust the slightness.

“You’re bleeding,” he finally noticed, voice low and steady. Junhong looked down to his hand, to his knee, then back into the other boy’s bright eyes.

Youngjae got up, walking toward one of the cabinet — he picked a bottle of alcohol and a mildly-clean rag from one of the drawer before returning to Junhong, and forcefully gripped his wrist as he lowered himself back on the bed. The younger boy fought against his hold, but to no avail as the other was already strong and oddly well-built for his young age.

“If you hadn’t noticed, you’ve used my quota of patience for the day.” Youngjae dryly stated.

Junhong knew better than to anger an enemy when he was being courteous, and let his limb go limp in the other’s grip, which slackened in return.

The alcohol was terribly unpleasant, burning and itching his wound, but rather than letting his attention on the pain, Junhong tried to focus on the curves and sharp lines of the other’s face, on his cheeks, high bones, rounded nose, plush lips.

Once he finished wrapping both his palm and knee in clean rags, Youngjae headed toward his desk, picking up the tray with the hardtacks and a glass of water he had prepared, disposing it on the other boy’s laps.

“Eat.” He half-ordered, half-encouraged, nodding at the dish.

Junhong really didn’t feel like gulping down any kind of food at that moment, and simply stared blankly at the tray, feeling tears flooding his eyes for the umpteenth time of the evening.

Youngjae technically didn’t represent much of a threat; he probably could immobilise him for long enough to flee with a well-placed kick; but Junhong was no-foul and was well aware that there was nowhere to hide at sea, and any further attempt at escaping would result in his ultimate death. He had never missed his family so bad than at this moment, not even during the long winters with his father at sea, or during the sleepless nights spent at Miss Hopkins’s when his mother had to travel to Salestown to sell her pieces of handmade jewelries and wool clothes.

“Where’s my dad?” Junhong asked quietly; almost certain Youngjae couldn’t hear him.

The latter let out a little sigh after a moment, sounding exhausted and weary. Preferring not to answer the delicate question, he muttered what vaguely sounded like a _“I’m sorry,”_ before standing up.

“I have to go,” he announced, walking out of the door.

Left alone, Junhong didn’t see the point to hold back tears anymore.

 

*

*      *

 

Each steps taking Youngjae closer to his father’s cabin seemed a bit heavier, to echo a bit louder through the hallway than the previous one. Fairly, he feared the Captain Yoo’s reaction; he knew he had signed himself up for a whole new lot of trouble when he rescued the boy; maybe would he be beaten up, maybe hooked onto a masthead for the night, or maybe his father would opt for a more traditional punishment and use the whip.

He reminded himself the upcoming conversation’s main objective was keeping the child alive, no matter the consequences for him; and a weight seemed to be lifted from his chest as he thought he could actually do something right for once. He could bargain for the boy’s status later, let him be a new recruit, a knave, a new pet for the crew, a prisoner even, if it was his last resort.

 

He should have thought this through before jumping into the sea, he deplored. During the battle, Youngjae had stayed on the _Bloody Greed’s_ lookout spot, legs dangling in the air, watching boringly his dad and crew killing dozens and dozens of innocent merchants; a common routine for him, by then.

What caught his attention, however, was the little boy standing in the middle of the bloody mess, and curiously, Youngjae observed his every move with rapt attention. He saw him attempt to fire a gun at one of his crew member, winced in sympathy as the recoil surprised the child. He kept watching, as the boy broke the lamp, and impaled his hand on a sharp shard to pull it out.

He still observed, in awe may he confess, the lanky boy run toward Lorenzo and kill him with one single clean hit. When Georges rushed toward him and threw him overboard like a rag doll, Youngjae was still on his privileged observation point; Georges wasn’t a bad guy at all and he probably couldn’t kill a baby boy in cold blood, even if said babe just murdered one of his closest mate.

Taking pity on the kid, Youngjae hadn’t thought about it twice — he leapt back on the yard, gripping a set of backstays as he went and let himself slide down the deck, ignoring the familiar burn in his palm as the ropes ripped his skin. Once his feet touched the floor, he didn’t lose anytime jumping over the wooden bulwarks, diving into the ocean.

Finding the boy underwater wasn’t an easy enterprise, and when Youngjae finally reached him, he grew scared he had been too late — quickly, he pulled him back toward the surface, securing him in his arms, and swam backward back to his father’s vessel. Climbing back up the hull with the boy’s dead weight in his arms proved to be the most difficult part, but thankfully his balcony was on the third level of the ship; providing him an easy access back in the security of his cabin without anyone noticing them.

He tended to his wounds, took him out of his drenched clothes; he took care of him as though he had been rescuing a stray dog. All that he had left to do was finally telling his father about his excess of initiative.

 

If only he could, Youngjae would have kept the boy his dirty little secret, as his very own treasure buried in the safety of his room; but he couldn’t, he had no choice — if he kept stealing food for him, it would quickly become apparent there was more than just a few rats hiding aboard, and he wasn’t sure he would manage to keep the boy locked away in his room, anyway, what with his attitude and dangerous evading habit.

And now there he was, standing in front of the Captain Yoo’s cabin, his heart beating in his ribcage like it, too, was trying to escape. He knocked on his father’s door twice, waiting for the familiar voice to invite him in — _“Come in!”_ it rasped, a biting edge to it. Maybe his legs were trembling, or was it the waves rocking the ship more violently than usual, Youngjae wasn’t sure; he felt himself grew weaker as the door squeaked open. Head spinning, he took a deep breath to steady himself before passing the threshold.

As expected, his father was at his desk, examining a piece of jewellery cautiously with his golden loupe, the one recovered with green gems. He looked up from the fruits of the day’s plunder, a smile fending his face as his boy walked up toward him.

“Come here, my son, let me show you something.”

Youngjae obediently did as he was told, nearing his father’s desk with a dreadful sense of curiosity. He was inspecting a silver ring, the piece of jewellery looking quite plain, if not for the impressing sapphire topping its finely sculpted support.

“What is it?”

His father’s grin widened.

“Procella, Youngjae.” His boy gave him an intrigued look, which he only answered with a guffaw at first. He pursued, “Procella’s ring, the Weather’s commander. Don’t you remember the legend?”

“I do,” Youngjae nodded, interest picked.

How could he forget the story of the Triplet Goddesses, their assorted rings consecrating any men at sea with their endless power. But legends they indeed were, and stories they had stayed through the ages — no expedition nor research for the Triplets’ rings had ever been fruitful, and many lost their minds or their lives looking for them. As marvellous as the gem looked, Youngjae doubted it could have granted anyone any kind of power.

“How do you know it’s Procella?”

“Because, son, why do you think we barely managed to catch up with that crap merchant’s ship? The ring, they used it to turn the wind to our disadvantage. It was still glowing when I took it.”

Youngjae huffed, but knew better than telling his father he was an old man on the verge of dementia. “Where would you find it?”

 

The smirk his father gave him was sickening. He opened the desk’s drawer at his right, picking up a snipped finger and waved it before Youngjae’s face with cheerfulness. The boy swiftly backed his head away, but not enough for it to betray too much of his disgust.

As the son of the Captain, and future leader of the _Bloody Greed_ , Youngjae had to maintain appearances up and stay unfazed no matter the display of gore and cruelty he was facing. He was a man, he was strong and capable, and fearless. And also, at that moment, on the verge of throwing up.

Being raised as a barbarous warrior, killing and stealing for a living, Youngjae had managed to keep up for most of his life; he made his captain proud, the whole crew thought he was a part of them, other pirates dreaded his name as much as his father’s. What he had done that day, rescuing a drowning boy, seemed uncharacteristically of him; it even surprised him too, to an extent — but he would have been foolish to deny the fact that he had never really been a pirate. He never felt like one.

“Father, look, I…” He began but trailed off, trying desperately to hide the quiver of his voice. He had to find the right words; he knew his father would show no mercy to the kid and simply feed him to the fishes at the first of Youngjae's mistakes.

The captain threw him a questioning glare which made his son flinch a little.

“I may, or may not, have done something foolish.”

 

*

*      *

 

It was late at night, and therefore terribly chilly. The clashing of the droplet bouncing back on the tarnished wood of the deck of the _Bloody Greed_ produced a deafening din, yet didn’t cover the loud echo of thunder from afar.

A biting wind caressed Youngjae’s skin, making it raise in goosebumps — he was shaking, both from fear and the cold, and the waves mercilessly rocking the ship made him dizzy. A gun was aimed to his head, which he hung low in a sign of submission, still staring at the ground and kneeling, just like he had been for the last ten minutes. He could feel the runaway boy’s head pressing behind his shoulders’ blades, struggling to keep his sobs silent; his tears, though, felt hot against Youngjae’s drenched shirt, the warm spot a nice contrast to the rest of his wet, freezing body.

“Move aside.”

He didn’t, but raised his head to meet his father’s gaze unblinkingly. He shook his head slowly.

“I will blow your brain out. Move.”

Youngjae was tempted to challenge him; tell him _“As if.”_ — he knew that, past his father middle affection, the man still desperately needed him aboard, but testing his luck at this moment would have been reckless, considering it wasn’t exactly his life on the line, but one of an innocent child. It felt like an eternity.

His father’s crew watched, entranced, the show unfold. If the scene hadn’t been so intense, if the silence on the deck hadn’t been so suffocating, if they weren’t, too, risking to take a bullet in their heads if they spoke up, Youngjae was sure the hands would have been taking bets: _“Will he shoot his son, will he not.”_

Slowly, Captain Yoo lowered his gun.

“Put him in a cell.” Youngjae’s lips allowed a shaky yet inaudible sigh of relief to escape them. “I don’t want to see the lubber on my ship. One mistake, just one, and you’re both sent to Davy Jones’ locker. Am I making myself clear?”

“Crystal.” The young man smiled up to his father, risking a bit of cockiness to hide the trembling of his voice.

 

They stayed on the deck long after most of the men had scurried back to the common quarters and to their hammocks, sheltering themselves away from the rain. Youngjae was shaking madly, yet couldn’t find the strength in him to stand up as the kid was still clutching at his shirt like his life depended on it. He wished he could offer him any kind of comfort; he wanted to take him in his arms and make him laugh, anything that could ease his aching heart. But he didn’t dare to; too afraid of seeing the runaway boy slip away from his hands again.

He, however, wasn’t the one inciting touches between them. With all the caution of the world, Junhong delicately crept his slender arms around Youngjae’s back, hands resting flatly on his front, atop his beating heart. His sobs didn’t die down, but he nonetheless managed to choke out a _“thank you”_ that was almost lost in the wind; Youngjae turned around in the embrace then, tucking the young boy in-between his legs, and pressed his little head down to his chest. He stroked the mess that was his hair, whispering quiets _“it’s okay”s_ that didn’t really hold any meaning, yet were still tender enough to make the kid eventually relax.

And although the weather was so cold, Youngjae felt himself stop shaking. The air aboard the _Bloody Greed_ had never felt warmer.

 

*

*      *

 

  
The days went by slowly at first. Junhong was locked away in his own cage, but the large gap between the iron bars offered him no intimacy and no real separation from the other detainees; he couldn’t say he enjoyed the company.

After the sixth day, he counted, the scrawny man had died. Still, the crew let his corpse rot in his cell; the smell, allied to the natural heat from the bilge of a ship, was fairly unbearable. Junhong thought he’d meet his end this way, suffocated, and the perfect view he had of the man’s skin swelling with worms did nothing to help the strange and disturbing need he had to scratch and claw at his eyes.

The cells were always silent — most of the convicts unsurprisingly didn’t have the strength to converse. One of them had tried once, though; simple questions such as _“What is a boy this young doing here?”_ , _“What’s your family business with the_ Bloody Greed _?”_ , and _“Why did the Captain Yoo keep you alive?”_ but his inquiries were only met with loud sobs and heartbreaking cries, bouncing off the walls of the makeshift dungeon and echoing through the whole floor. No one tried to speak to him again, and Junhong didn’t induce any form of contact with them either.

 

After the thirteenth day, Youngjae finally came to see him. He brought him hardtack again, a tasty meal compared to the half mouldy bread he had been thrown at for the couple of weeks prior, and spent the whole afternoon and a great part of the evening keeping him company.

The next time Youngjae came, he had taken a hold of the cells’ keys and let Junhong out of the prison, cautiously eyeing him at first — probably looking for any fighting or fleeing preparation stance. But as days passed, he started to trust the child wouldn’t do anything foolish (like smashing his head against a wall, again,) and finally relaxed in his presence.

 

Months passed and the Captain gave their newly formed friendship some kind of acknowledgement, letting Junhong wander in the corridors; never on the deck, which was still a forbidden place. The teen mostly spent his days in Youngjae’s room, reading by his side or playing games with him, before returning to his cell for the night.

And as days, seasons and years kept going, Junhong acquired more and more freedom on the ship, until everyone completely forgot he once had been a prisoner.

 

In the prime of their ages, the boys were inseparables; there never was a time one could see Youngjae without Junhong at his hips, so much so that the Captain Yoo had begun considering the kid as highly as his very own progeny. 

The two young men liked to play tricks on the other members of the crew, hiding their belongings or enthusiastically smashing pot lids together at dawn. More often than not, late at night, when the others went to sleep off their grogs, you could find them gazing at the stars on the poop deck in silence, or talking quietly, away from prying eyes, on the railing of Youngjae’s balcony.

To Junhong, Youngjae was a never-ending list of possibilities. It felt like he spoke every languages, saw every continents, read every books; and he spoke of them not with the boredom you could expect from someone that had seen all of the most beautiful things the planet harboured, but with the excitement and bright energy of a dozen suns condensed in one skin. Junhong enjoyed spending time with Youngjae more than he ever thought he would; more than he thought he was allowed to.

Because as dear of a friend the elder was to him, his grudge persisted.

To keep appearances up, to stay apart of the crew and thus, stay alive, Junhong had had no choice but to kill. Merchants, honest sailors, other pirates, lost fishers; all that came on the path of the _Bloody Greed_. And when they dropped anchor at ports, those were often innocent villagers they plundered and massacred; entire villages of recluses they wiped out the map mercilessly.

Junhong felt soiled at his core, the kind of filth no bath nor religious belief could ever clean, and he found himself, more often that not, overwhelmed with guilt and despair.

Even out of his cell, he was still a prisoner of the _Bloody Greed._ Junhong was no fool, he knew well that trying to escape would have been signing his own death warrant.

 

Really, the only positive thing that came out of the situation was Youngjae, whom he genuinely adored in every possible way; and when the elder whispered poetry against his skin, in-between tender kisses and shy touches, Junhong felt as though every single ones of his breaths had been blessed by Gods.

 

> “Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico.”
> 
> _— I know no pleasure that can health attend, like the delight of a lovely friend._

 

But if his hatred for his best friend’s father sometimes made him uncomfortable, sometimes suffocated him in the middle of the night; Youngjae still didn’t need to know.

Junhong wanted the Captain Yoo _**dead**_ ; he wanted him crawling on the floor, suffering and imploring his mercy, before he plunged a sharp blade right through his throat.

The old man had developed the strange habit to pat him on the head after particularly bloody raids, an habit which made him sick — he always felt sharp pangs of pain forcing his disgust not to show, trying to restrain the rushes of pure hatred that threatened to devour him, the flow of wicked acrimony pumping through his veins; but he never got called out on it, and therefore trusted that his survival instincts veiled all possible betraying signals just fine.

 

The captain kept Junhong’s father’s ring proudly around his finger, as the dearest treasure he had ever owned, as though it was really his. It was not, it would never be. The ring had once been precious to his father — it had been gifted to him, Junhong remembered, by a young princess his father had rescued in the strait of Messina, Italia.

The smile his father wore proudly every time he glanced at the simple piece of jewellery was forever engraved in his mind; and Junhong often felt an appalling wave of sadness wash over him when he was reminded of how much he cherished the ring, never leaving at sea without it, always admiring its vivid blue glow with silent delight.

Junhong vowed revenge. The thought was always here, in the back of his mind, raging and ardent; it was in his every move, his every word, his every smile.

  


*

*      *

 

On a lazy morning, Junhong found himself woken up by the sunlight peering from behind the half-shut curtains, shining dazzlingly throughout the room. He squinted, bothered, and turned away from the window; he was then welcomed by the sight of Youngjae, still sleeping quietly on his own side of the bed.

Sliding under the sheets, Junhong crawled to him in fluid, cautious moves, trying not to wake him up; once he was close enough that he could feel the warmth of the elder’s skin against his own, the young man placed one of his palm on the other side of the sleeping figure, and propped himself upward, hovering over him.

Junhong was still impressed by how pretty he was. The feeling did not fade over the years, still as vivid as the first time he saw the other man in the dungeon; maybe had it even become stronger, as puberty did wonderful things to the curves and sharp lines of the elder’s face. He grew stunningly handsome, without ever trying to be, which was infuriating somehow; but the younger revelled in the fact he was the only one to know this, for he was also the only one to be able to see his features so closely, in such a relaxed and peaceful slumber. He could touch, scent, even kiss; he was allowed every desire and sin with Youngjae, and nothing, and no one would ever be able to take away from him the privilege of admiring his beauty, as though it had always only been here for his enjoyment alone.

Junhong smiled to himself, bending down to press his lips chastely against his friend’s forehead, before slithering down the other’s torso, eventually resting his temple on his chest. The younger listened to each and every single one of the mellifluous heartbeats, his entire body rendered boneless simply by the mere fact Youngjae truly was alive.

 

A hand Junhong hadn’t expected brushed the side of his face, making him jerk back a little in surprise.

“It’s me, idiot,” Youngjae rasped out, the echo of it travelling through his ribcage directly into the younger’s ear; it sent jolts of pleasure down his spine, and he looked up toward his friend in pure ecstasy.

“Good morning.”

The elder did not bother returning the greeting, hand buried deeply in the other’s hair; he looked entranced with his playing, twisting and wreathing locks, wrapping some strands around his fingers and alternating between caresses on his scalp and gentle tugs. Junhong could have purred if he had known how to.

Nevertheless, he had learned how to tell the other how much he appreciated his touches — he moaned quietly every time the elder’s hand swept against a particularly sensible spot, moving his lips slightly against the other’s skin, pressing himself back against his legs. And as was the usual, the elder’s body stiffened a bit more after each soft murmur of his name.

Youngjae’s face was distorted in a wince, yet his body spoke a completely different language, twitching underneath the boy as though trying to bring them even closer. And once again, Junhong basked in his own possessiveness; rejoiced in the fact that he was the only one that would ever see the elder this way, so vulnerable and open, so needy and so fully his.

Junhong’s voice got louder, moans of his friend’s name clearer. He dragged daring fingers down the other’s flanks, delicately, almost shyly, following the paths designed by the hard muscles and the scars recovering his front; he caressed him all the way down to his waist, finally reaching the hem of his trousers. The younger passed a hand underneath the fabric without bothering to undo its buttons, stroking Youngjae’s pelvis in round motions; but before he could go further, the latter removed his hand from his hair and tried to shove the boy off of him.

“Let’s go get breakfast Junhong, I’m hungry.”

Junhong offered him a smile, understanding, and rolled off of him; amused to see Youngjae throw himself out of bed in what oddly seemed like fear of being eaten alive.

While the younger tied the laces of his shirt’s collar, he thought with a thankful heart that what made these moments so special, so precious, was that it was only theirs — there was no one else to mind, no one else to satisfy; they could get lost in each other and never be bothered by the rest of the world. In these moments they spent in their shared cabin, they became each other’s entire universe.

 

Following Youngjae on the first under-level of the galleon, and into the common area, Junhong took his same usual place on the chair beside him; the elder served him dried meat and water, knowing he would refuse wine so early in the day. Although most of the men were already at work on the deck, some of those who were resting decided to come drink their liquor at the table with the boys, to keep them company.

Throughout the years, Junhong had learned that the crew of the _Bloody Greed_ was quite special. The men came from all places and continents; all had different cultures, spoke different dialects, but still had to work their way through to be united as a team. Some couldn’t even communicate properly with others due to language barriers, though most of them had picked up the fundamental of english over their time aboard; and Junhong had been surprised to learn that this had been one of his father’s strategy to keep his hands in rank.

Youngjae had once explained to him that by being limited in the way they expressed themselves, they couldn’t properly plan mutiny and go dragging each other into rebellious movements; they could never word their opinions properly, and the ship was therefore devoid of any deviant political campaign, even though the Captain Yoo ruled over his crew with an iron hand.

Junhong had been mildly impressed by the amount of thought put into it at first; but realised the everyday application was not as easy as it sounded: it was all a torment, really, to try and understand anything some of the pirates were saying, as they often switched to their native languages mid-sentence without even realising it.

Fortunately, Youngjae had always been there for him; translating what he couldn’t understand from the context, helping him learn new words progressively, even answering for him.

It happened on that day again, as Diego wholeheartedly talked about the attack they conducted the day before on a big fisher’s boat, throwing in random spanish that Junhong couldn’t understand.

“That _Capitán, gordo!_ Almost—” He joined his fingers together, most likely trying to mimic a firearm, “ _me disparó en la_ face!”

“Ahoy, Diego! Your reflexes are still on point though; you’ve been faster and that’s all that matter.”

“ _Por suerte,_ son!” The buff man exclaimed, slamming one of his huge fists on the table as to prove a point, before schooling his tone back down to an unhappy grumble, “ _Aún así, estaba cerca…_ ”

 

Junhong completely gave up at this point, heaving a sigh as he bit down on his dried meat. He hated not being able to understand a simple conversation, feeling still voluntarily outcasted from the crew, as though they all knew he would never be one of them. Which was true, yet still terribly unfair — he worked harder than any other man on this ship to be apart of their twisted family, and he felt terribly vexed that none of his efforts seemed recognised for what they really were.

Hearing his friend sigh and groan, Youngjae slid one of his hand to Junhong’s thigh under the table, directing half of his attention toward him as he kept listening to Diego’s ramblings. His fingers ran up and down the younger’s leg, sometimes stroking a bit further up, too high for what could have been considered decent in public; but his hands were hidden anyway, and Junhong was feeling blue, so sue him.

The younger grabbed the adventurous limb before it could get to his waistband, and pushed it away.

“Did the Captain tell ye’ guys?” Georges asked, oblivious to what was happening under the tabletop. “He decided where we’d drop the anchor next.”

Youngjae’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Where are we headed?”

“England, northwest coast. Mayb’ near Herwhich or even Millstone.” He then shrugged, “Ye’r father said we’d stay some days, he may recruit hands ther’. Arrival intend’ tomorrow at best.”

 

Junhong stilled. His companion seemed totally unaware of how rigid his body had become under his touch, too thrilled to focus on anything else; he asked questions after questions, fingers playing around with the fabric of the younger’s pants excitedly. The latter had stopped paying attention to the conversation; he decided he didn’t care about any of the things the crew would do in England — what he saw in the stopover was a way out.

He didn’t run away before, wherever they anchored, because there had been no point in it — he couldn’t understand any other language, wouldn’t have been able to find his way back in a foreign country; even if he had managed to run away from the coast and overtake the lands, his “friends” would have sent a search party for his head as soon as he would have gone missing. He had had no chance to survive.

But England was his native country; they would drop the anchor near his hometown, near the place he grew up. He actually had a chance to make it out of there alive.

Junhong bit back a triumphant smirk.

 

 

* 

*      *

 

 

The day passed by busily; Junhong had quickly learned there was always something to tend to on the _Bloody Greed._ Though the galleon was a beautiful and robust vessel, it was also huge, and the constant combats had taken their toll on its wooden skin. If it weren’t the sails that required fixing, then it was the hull, the hold, or even the people — not a single day was spent without a member of the equipage needing medical attention, and the young men had thus learned how to efficiently do bandages or extract bullets.

As he was busy stitching Kaleb’s arm after he scraped his skin on one of the masts, Junhong often threw glances at Youngjae, who was gracefully dancing around the masts to check the backstays and ropes’ usury. He couldn’t help but feel worried; his friend could be rather reckless and clumsy at times, and yet, there he was, jumping from a rope to a yard, from a yard to a mast, from a mast to a sail, as though he was not suspended one hundred and fifty feet above the ground.

Still, Junhong had to concede the elder was showing a bewitching display of elegance, one he was sure no other human being possessed — and he found himself, once again, grateful to have been given the opportunity to meet him, even in such tragic circumstances.

Kaleb suddenly inhaled sharply, reminding the younger boy that his focus was supposed to stay on his needle and the nasty dangling patch of skin; Junhong went back to stitching with a muttered apology.

 

* 

*      *

 

Later on the same day, the two friends were cleaning the cannons together, chattering away as they usually did on their shared chores. Nothing of importance was said, but Junhong felt an odd feeling bloom inside of his chest, one he could only explain as guilt, remorse and fear. Youngjae was not acting any differently, flashing to him bright smiles every time their eyes met; yet something about the whole situation felt off, overwhelming.

The younger pushed the matter to the back of his mind and increased his efforts in working his rag on the already shiny black surface.

“You all right?”

Youngjae’s worried tone almost startled Junhong, and he snapped his head toward him. He tried to find something convincing to answer quickly, and those were coming to him fast — _“just a little dizzy,”_ _“must be the heat,” “maybe the dried meat this morning,”_ — but in all the years they had spent together, he had never, ever been able to lie to his friend.

“I’m just feeling… Weird, you know?” Youngjae drew his eyebrows together in surprise and confusion, so the younger pursued, “No big deal, I’m just kind of… _Bothered_.”

“Is it about this morning? When Diego spoke spanish?”

“No, don’t worry.” Junhong offered him a small, reassuring smile. “I’m not sure what it’s about, either.”

Youngjae’s face didn’t soften, his expression still laced with concern; however, he did not push the issue further and simply shifted his action back to the cannonball he had been polishing. Junhong tried his best to ignore the uncomfortable silence and miserable expression his friend wore, and managed to do so for at least ten minutes before giving in.

“Look, it’s nothing, ok?” He eventually blurted out. “Do me a favour and put these eyebrows down, otherwise your forehead might get wrinkled.”

Youngjae looked even more confused for a split second, before he let his face break into a quivering smile, laughter echoing in the empty room a little. Junhong’s own lips curled upward in reply, feeling his chest expand with a heartwarming burst of affection at the sound; and he shook his head, dismissing the odd feeling that threatened to take over.

“I just want you to be happy, Junhong.” The elder sobered, his tone going back to serious and earnest, even though he was still grinning that child-like smile of his. “I would do anything.”

Junhong’s eyes lit up at the declaration, but he averted them to ground again, feeling sheepish.

“Me, too,” he whispered, throat tight, “I would do anything for you.”

Youngjae beamed, eyes as bright as ever.

They exchanged a long look full of fondness, before shyly returning to their chores, smiles unwavering.

 

*

*      *

 

Sometime between dusk and dawn found the boys resting on Youngjae’s bed, bodies pressed together from shoulders to knees. Junhong shifted a little, trying to keep his position comfortable while he read; his foot accidentally bumped against Youngjae’s, and while he didn’t take any heed to it, the elder apparently considered the slight brush as a declaration of war and promptly kicked him back.

“Hey!” Junhong protested, frowning in mock annoyance.

Youngjae grinned devilishly before throwing his right leg on Junhong’s thighs, left foot attacking the younger’s calves with irritating pokes. The other rolled his eyes; Youngjae acted just like a bored kid, tugging at his mother’s dress to draw her attention back to him, and as endearing as the image could have been, an actual twenty-five grown-up man jabbing restlessly at your legs could quickly shatter to piece anyone’s patience.

 

 

Junhong threw his book to the floor carelessly, ready to charge back at him. With a swift but forceful movement, he shoved Youngjae’s legs off of him and rolled on top of the other, straddling his thighs. The elder looked surprised for a moment, leaving him the opportunity to snatch his own pillow from his deserted spot and force it down the elder’s face.

Wild arms tried to either grab him or push him off, hips jerking desperately under him and legs kicking the mattress to no avail; Youngjae’s muffled screams bounced on the walls of the cabin and back into Junhong’s pleased ears. After seconds, probably as soon as Youngjae realised thrashing around wouldn’t be efficient against the other man, it ceased altogether — his body went limp underneath Junhong, arms falling back to his sides.

The younger finally removed the pillow from the other’s face, still keeping it in hands. Youngjae’s head rolled gracelessly to the side, his eyes wide but unfocused, distant; his jaw was hanging open, mouth agape allowing his tongue to loll out. Junhong couldn’t help but notice the bit of drool on his chin.

“You’re an idiot.”

Youngjae struggled to hide his own smile, still trying to act dead; Junhong playfully smashed the cushion against his head once, then twice, and at the thrice hit, the elder finally reacted; he reached out to block the pillow right before it crashed against him.

They fought over the cushion like toddlers, pulling it toward themselves forcefully. Youngjae, still laying on his back, managed to free one of his legs from under him and lifted it high enough to set his foot on Junhong’s stomach. He gently pushed the younger away, trying not to hurt him; but it was enough for him to release his grip on the pillow with a surprised huff.

“That’s cheating!” Junhong protested, trying to grab the cushion anew; but Youngjae was quick in shoving it behind his back to keep it out of reach.

“Sore loser!”

“Cheater!” Junhong pinched his thigh. “Cheater, cheater, cheater!”

Youngjae broke into laughter, whole body shaking under its strength, then sat up, going to place his back straight against the headboard. He deposed the pillow on his thighs, hands still clutching at the fabric in case Junhong decided to be sneaky — and God knew how foxy the younger could be. The other stared at him with narrowed eyes.

“You want it?” Youngjae asked, smile provoking, “Come get it.”

When Junhong smirked right back; Youngjae understood that meant trouble.

 

Slowly moving up the length of his legs, the younger only stopped when their faces were mere inches apart, their breaths blending together on each other’s skins. Junhong watched with curiosity Youngjae’s pupils move, expand, and devour the mirth his eyes usually contained. Meanwhile, the other stared at his lips, his own mouth falling open to let him breathe more easily.

Junhong moved his face to the side, feeling Youngjae’s breath hitch and hasten as his lips came in contact with his earlobe. He nibbled at the skin gently, rubbing his cheek on the side of the elder’s face in the process, savouring the feeling of the other’s small sighs on his neck.

“You were saying?” Junhong playfully whispered, mouth brushing against the other’s ear.

Youngjae let out a small whine, hands coming to his shirt and tugged at it; sitting back on his haunches, the younger let himself be handled out of his entire attire, and did not protest when he was roughly pushed back on the mattress, the other coming in between his bare legs. Youngjae took a second to pull his shirt off before diving back onto Junhong, eagerly peppering kisses over the whole of his face, neck and shoulders.

The younger’s hands blindly grabbed at his pants, poking at the belt in frustration; which made the other laugh in return, then roll off of him to dispose of his last remaining clothes. Junhong propped himself up on one elbow, torso twisting to reach the lamp on their bedside; he made a quick job of blowing the flame out and unscrewing the glass dome, ready to plunge his fingers in; he was, however, cut in his tracks by Youngjae grabbing his wrist, forcing it back to his own stomach.

The elder placed a small kiss on the tip of his nose before taking a hold of the oil tank himself, soaking his fingers in the greasy liquid. Junhong’s breathing picked up when he finally came back in between his legs, one arm keeping him hovering above the younger while his hand travelled down between their bodies.

“Come on, please.”

“Be patient, Junhong.” The elder answered with a smile, brushing over the other’s erect length without quite touching it.

Junhong threw his head back on the mattress, fully exposing his tense jaw line and bite-marked neck, his back arching beautifully. He brought one finger against the younger’s rim of muscles and pressed against it as a test, but the other just pulled his legs further apart, inviting. Youngjae pushed one finger in, and promptly added a second, setting up a slow and sensual pace in his perpetual back and forth motion.

He watched with delight the other’s muscles that rippled down his arms, his flat stomach and long, strong legs as the younger gradually lost all control on the sound he made, on the jerking of his fingers, on the shuddering of his knees; then he inserted a third finger in the tight heat, and Junhong clenched around him, making a low groan rumbling in his chest.

The younger gasped, his thighs slamming shut around the other’s waist.

“I’m ready, I swear I’m ready.” Junhong breathed. “Just get in, please.”

Youngjae smiled down at him, bringing their bodies together by leaning on him, and placed a trail of open-mouthed kisses from his collarbones, up his throat, and back to his lips. Still embracing him, Youngjae stroked his throbbing erection with all that was left of the oil on his fingers, before guiding it into his flesh.

The elder eased himself inside of him slowly, feeling every twitch and breaths of his lover as their bodies joined perfectly, fitting each other like two pieces from the same ensemble coming back together. Youngjae clutched at the sheets around Junhong’s head in hopes to keep the last ounce of control he still had; and in return, the younger scratched at his shoulder blades, following the length of his spine with his nails.

“Ok?” Youngjae managed in a short breath.

“Ok,” Junhong nodded back, tilting his head to the side to encourage kisses.

 

The elder lapped at the skin offered to him, carefully pulling his hips back and sinking back to the hilt again. Junhong felt like the air had been forced from of his lungs, reduced to a gasping mess at the touch. Youngjae first rocked into him as unhurriedly as he could manage, setting a leisure pace that he wasn’t sure would last long; and right he was — Junhong let out a very vocal moan that he had the instinct to muffle with his own mouth, the vibrations of it sending jolts run through his body, all the way to his straining member.

The younger arched his back again, moving hungrily on him, and Youngjae could only gasp and grip the other’s hips to keep himself anchored. Junhong, who was visibly (and audibly,) frustrated, lifted his head up, catching the elder’s bottom lip in between his teeth, and gently nibbled at it; his breath hitched again, and Youngjae delved deeper into him with a sharp thrust, the strength reverberating through his own body.

When Junhong screamed his name, Youngjae knew he had found his sensitive spot; without changing the angle of his hips, he aimed for the same bundle of nerves, picking up his pace. Junhong writhed under him, begging nonsense and scratching at his back desperately — all of it only made him go a little more feral, losing a bit more of restraint with each of his thrust.

Youngjae’s rhythm had nothing coordinated anymore; he was just convulsing, bringing Junhong into hysteria with him. Both boys moved restlessly against each other, bodies shaking with excitement and a bit of pain. Junhong had a spasm that shook his entire body as he came untouched, spluttering his release over both of their stomachs; this came as a relief to Youngjae, as retaining himself had turned into an actual torture. The elder let go in retaliation, his face contorted in a silent scream in his final moment of ecstasy as he buried himself as deep as he could go into his young lover’s flesh.

 

Youngjae fell on top of Junhong’s chest, breaths coming out in ragged gasps; and the younger was no better, his brows furrowed and face contorted in a wince as he focused on calming the beating of his wild heart.

“Well,” Youngjae managed in between pants, “How are you? Are you sore?”

“M’fine.”

The elder saw the bruises beginning to form on the younger’s hips, the purple tint of his neck and the bitten look of his swollen lips. Never had they ever been so rough with each other; and Youngjae worried that even if he had hurt Junhong, he still wouldn’t tell. He never told.

“Do you want fresh water?”

The younger smiled down at him, apparently touched, even though his eyebrows raised together in surprise and confusion, “I’m fine, Youngjae.”

And the latter chose to believe him. Without moving from the other’s body, he picked up his shirt he had sent flying near them, wiping them both off their sweat and come, before rolling the piece of cloth into a ball and throwing it away.

With a sigh, Youngjae rolled off of Junhong to lay on his stomach near him, the latter turning to lay on his side next to him — there, the elder put his head back to rest against his lover’s chest, who extended his arm out of the way to give him better access into the embrace; and once they were both comfortably settled, Junhong’s hand fell on Youngjae’s shoulder naturally, pulling him even closer.

Their legs intertwined, and their breathing, back to peacefulness, blended together as one once again. As he was drifting off to sleep, Youngjae heard a distant, raspy murmur, something akin the line of _“I love you”,_ but his intense exhaustion blurred the line between dream and reality. Unable to form any coherent thoughts, he buried his face deeper in Junhong’s bare torso and fell asleep.

 

* 

*      *

 

Junhong did not fall asleep like the other man did, too giddy to even consider it; instead, he lost track of time caressing Youngjae’s hair and neck, breathing in his scent, telling him goodbye without forming words, without being heard. It was all right; after all, if Youngjae had known what he was about to do, he’d have gotten into the way — worse, his life could have been in danger as well.

Sighing a last time, Junhong placed a last kiss on the top of his friend’s head, and carefully removed his arm from under his neck. He tried to stay quiet as he got up from the bed and gathered his clothes, pulling them back on with a weariness he didn’t think he’d feel; and once ready to go, he paused at the door, taking a final glimpse of the sleeping figure.

The thought that he was to never see him again crossed his mind, making him close his eyes and sigh another time. Yes; it was sad, and yes, Junhong felt guilty about leaving his lover in the dark, but all in all it was all for the better — or so he tried to convince himself.

After looking around the cabin one last time to make sure he hadn’t forgotten any of his personal belonging (who was he kidding, he had none,) Junhong opened the door and silently walked out, pulling the door shut behind him with a muted thud.

 

He tiptoed his way through the large corridor of the galleon, mindful of the creaking planks — which he thankfully all knew, after ten years aboard, and went up the stairs with feather-like steps.

Once on the first under-level, Junhong swayed off his way to the deck by passing through the common area, where many drunkards were sleeping off their rum; he delicately snatched one of the knives from where they were resting near dried sausage, and went back on his way. Adrenaline bubbled up his stomach as he finally reached the main deck.

There, he saw André as the man was dozing off on a tacky crate while he was supposed to keep watch. Sneaking up on him was surprisingly easily, even if, admittedly, the man woke up as soon as Junhong’s shadow blocked the moonlight’s glow from his face. The young man caught his hair in a tight grip and promptly slashed his throat in a clean cut, staring into the man’s eyes — which were on him in return, though full of fear and incomprehension; then, life bled completely out of him, and the boy let the dead man’s head fall back down.

Without losing a second, Junhong ran to the topside of the deck, where the jolly boat was waiting for him. The knife’s handle, that had suffered from some blood splashing, was uncomfortably slippery in his palm; the ropes attaching the boat to its mount were large and strong, his knife wasn’t that sharp, and time wasn’t on his side. The odds weren’t in his favour, and the escape promised to be difficult — still, the young boy did not give up and got to work, running his blade in an endless movement of come and go. Come and go. Come and go.

 

A squeak from the wooden floor made him snap his head around, ready to jump whoever caught him; but the feeble lights coming from the oil lamps showed no other soul around. Still, Junhong took some time to quiet his heavy breathing before getting back to work. Come and go, come and go.

His muscles were burning by the time there only remained one rope. He inhaled deeply, before letting his breath go in a loud sigh — the exhaustion, perpetual physical effort, and dreadful sensation of being watched were becoming close to unbearable; yet the young man had no choice but to keep going. It was his only chance, he thought, it’d be gone by tomorrow; and it was too late to turn back and return to Youngjae’s side, anyway, he had a dead man at his feet and blood all over his soiled hands. Freedom was worth the pain, freedom was worth all of it.

His knife’s toing and froing made the blade incessantly screech, and his patience ran thinner and thinner with every moment. Come and go, come and go.

 

All of a sudden, the wind brought to Junhong’s ears the sound of a grunt, something being knocked onto the ground, and wood cracking; his eyes widened in horror as he saw a feeble light blinking from behind the Captain's cabin’s thick windows. Junhong had no doubt he had awakened, but couldn’t know if it was from the noise or an insomnia; he did not move, still gripping tightly at jelly boat’s ropes, as though his life depended on it.

Thankfully, the Captain didn’t seem to notice anything strange — he passed between the light and the glass, showing his shadow rummaging through his desk’s drawers and other furniture, growling about this, grumbling about that; and an interminable half an hour later, he blew his candles out and went back to sleep. Junhong still did not dare to breathe, petrified; but as his lungs started to protest the lack of oxygen, his pounding heart seemed to finally calm down. He went back to cutting the last rope with trembling hands.

 

When the boat was finally free, Junhong did not move it; he had a last wish to fulfil before throwing himself at sea, the most important one. With stealthy, measured steps, he walked toward the front of the ship, where was the Captain’s cabin. The boy first pressed his ear to the door to make sure the old man was asleep, his knife tightly clutched in his hand; a rumbling snore assured him he had nothing to fear immediately, and he therefore started picking up the lock of the cabin. It took him only a few seconds to make the old creaking thing give way; he had, after all, years of practice under his belt with Youngjae as a mentor.

Junhong entered the cabin silently and closed the door behind him. He fumbled a bit in the obscurity to find the Captain’s desk, but once he did, he knew exactly where were the matches he was looking for, opening the first drawer with ease. He cracked one, lighting the room with a very faint orange glow, just enough to take a glimpse of the man sleeping two feet away from him.

Yoo was sleeping on his back, which was a curious habit for a man whose life was threatened at any hours of the day (and, well, night;) but it was convenient, so perfect for Junhong. He finally lit a candle up before blowing out the match and throwing it to the floor.

The young man held his breath in, walking carefully, yet with ease, toward the sleeping figure; and once he had reached it, he planted the blade straight to his heart in a swift movement.

Junhong would have loved making him scream, watching him beg for his life; he would have adored every single distressed inhales, every imploring looks or scared glares, every whimpers and every tears. The idea had often made jolts of excitement run through his system before; that one and single image kept him alive all those years.

But realistically thinking, he couldn't kill the Captain that way; he didn't have the strength to, nor enough power; and more importantly, he didn't have the time.

The Captain's death was unceremonious at best. After the first stab, his eyes flew wide open, and he tried to scream but Junhong was quicker in placing his hand on top of his mouth and nose, efficiently blocking out any noise he could have made. Thick, hot blood spread against Junhong's fist, which was tightly shut on the knife's handle.

They exchanged a long look as a last conversation; but Junhong eventually pulled out the blade and dived into the flesh anew, piercing the man’s organ again.

The move made a spasm run through the captain’s body, obviously fighting against its death; it became rigid, the old man’s torso leapt off the mattress under the shock, stiff, as though he was trying to sit up but didn’t manage to. A disgusting trickle of hemoglobin escaped the old man’s quivering lips and slid down his chin.

Seconds later, his carcass fell back on the bed heavily, his eyes still wide open and staring into nil. Junhong pulled the knife out from the corpse’s chest and grabbed a corner of the bedding silk sheet to wipe the blood off its blade. He then wedged the knife between his pants and belt, and with a pleasure he found hard to repress, pulled his father’s ring off of the heathen’s finger. Junhong admired it glow in his palm for a split second, feeling fulfilled, before preciously pocketing it and heading out of the room.

 

His job was done; he couldn’t believe he was free. His careful demeanour a bit forgotten, Junhong pushed the jelly boat’s mount toward the bulwarks, making the deck’s flooring creak and grit loudly under him. With fast and efficient moves, Junhong pushed the boat overboard — it fell with a deafening splash, but thankfully, it rejoined the water on the right side of its hull, meaning the young man wouldn’t have to turn it over in the glacial water after he jumped.

He watched for a moment the little boat follow the waves peacefully, hitting the galleon’s hull from time to time in quiet thuds echoing through the night, before throwing one of his legs on the wooden railing and standing up on it, his right hand gripping one of the masts’ ropes. With a last sigh, Junhong put one hand in his pocket to make sure he wouldn’t lose his father’s ring, and finally jumped into the ocean.

By then, Junhong should have known that there was, once again, only war awaiting those who left the peacefulness of a warm, loving embrace.

 

*

 *      *

 

 Youngjae had been woken up by the sound of his cabin’s door clicking shut. He was quick to notice the absence of Junhong in the bed, and concluded he had probably been the one closing the door.

The young man decided he’d simply wait for his friend to come back to him; but after he tossed and turned in the bed for a long while, it became clear to him that something was off. He got out of the bed and struggled to put his pants back on, reeling here and there, trying to find something to lean on since his legs felt like jelly.

Treading stealthily, he walked through the long corridor, glancing at his surrounding in hopes he’d find Junhong there — to no avail. He headed to the deck then, thinking maybe the younger had needed fresh air, but the thought in itself seemed ridiculous considering Youngjae had a balcony attached to his cabin.

As he was carefully walking up the stairs, mindful of the other sleeping men, he picked up from afar the repetitive sound of friction, that high pitched rasping that could make anyone’s skin crawl, and the muffled whimpers of a lad in effort. Youngjae crawled up the last steps, being overly cautious as to not be seen, before risking a look through the hatch, past the floor; and that's when he saw him.

 

He did not immediately understand what Junhong was doing, cutting away the jelly boat’s ropes with such desperation; but when the younger turned around, his knife raised menacingly up in front of him and his face contorted in terror and madness, Youngjae didn’t want to risk interrupting him — he therefore simply stayed kneeling on the stairs’ step, watching from afar.

Youngjae hadn’t moved an inch as the whole scene unfolded in front of him, still staring dizzily at his lover (or at least that's what he would have adored calling Junhong) by the time he had completely freed the boat. By then, Youngjae had somehow figured out what the younger was doing, and maybe why he was doing it, even though he still couldn't quite grasp the whole picture and its details.

Where would Junhong go if he left? Why would he even leave in the first place? It just didn't make any sense to him, especially after what had happened between them. He had thought (ridiculously, he realised,) that Junhong was happy with him; how naive, foolish had he been? For how long had this masquerade been going on?

Those were still the questions he was asking himself when he saw Junhong standing up, and walk carefully toward his father’s cabin. Dread grew in the pit of Youngjae’s stomach because he knew exactly what would come afterward — and yet, he didn’t stop watching as Junhong picked up the cabin’s lock and walked inside, lighting up a candle.

What followed was a sinister puppet show as Youngjae could only see shadows from the scene; Junhong's shadow, the blade's shadow, his father's shadow. All he heard was a soft whimper. And he watched, wide-eyed, his only family being murdered, killed by the hand of the one person he had ever loved.

Tears started to pool in his eyes, a lump forming in his throat, but he still did not intervene as Junhong stepped out of the cabin — he wanted to scream, fight and maybe beg, but the look of utter madness on the other’s face made him abandon all thoughts of confronting him. The glow of the oil lamps gave the younger’s face an otherworldly aura, twisting its usually soft lines into an animalistic mask.

 

One could have called him a coward, and yet Youngjae wouldn’t have minded — yes, he was, he simply couldn’t get into the other boy’s path. There was the fear of being killed by the hand of his beloved, yes; and there was also the fear of having him killed. If he survived, if he did manage to keep Junhong aboard, then what would happen to him? The crew would have wanted revenge, they’d have been out for blood, and Youngjae, inheriting his father’s position of captain, would have been forced to give it to them to secure his place as the leader. Youngjae wouldn’t have been able to endure losing both his father and his friend in such a short period of time; and therefore, maybe letting the runaway boy escape once more was the best he could do.

Even if he was to never see Junhong again, maybe knowing he was somewhere, safe and sound, would help him heal overtime. Maybe he would be able to move on from the overwhelming emotions that were ravaging him from the inside.

Youngjae knew he should have been full of rage and hatred, and yet felt unable to be mad; his mind devoured by sorrow and guilt. Junhong betrayed him. He betrayed the crew, his adoptive family, he threw all of his promising future aboard the _Bloody Greed_ away; and no one saw it coming.

Youngjae closed his eyes and inhaled shakily; how credulous had they all been. He couldn't stop thinking that in the end, it was his fault. It was him who rescued the drowning boy so many years ago, and maybe he should have let him die then. It was also on him that his lover suffered in silence for all those years, never once mentioning anything to him; maybe if he had just listened, maybe if he had just let Junhong talk about it, they could have been able to work it out. Perhaps if he hadn't been so stupid, so blinded by Junhong's fake adoration and smiles, he could have sincerely helped him.

And as he saw the younger man jump on the ship's bulwarks, readying himself to dive into the ocean and swim away from him, he felt like his heart shatter into a million pieces.

 

> “Nec fas esse ulla me voluptate hic frui,
> 
> Decrevi, tantisper dum ille abest meus particeps”
> 
> _— I have determined that it will never be right for me to enjoy any pleasure,_
> 
> _So long as he, with whom I shared all pleasures, is away._

Youngjae choked on one of his sobs, and his uneven breathing started to burn his lungs too; it was as though every seconds passing by brought him even more pain than the precedent, and he wasn't too sure how long his body would be able to endure so much sadness.

Could sorrow be fatal? At that moment, Youngjae hoped it was.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The loud roar of battle buzzes in Junhong’s ears. Cannons echo in the distance, the air is impregnated with blood and the sour smell of firearms’ powder, the wind is cold against his gashed skin.

Junhong screams for his men not to give up, thundering orders and encouragements; his sword usage isn’t as graceful, and his gun aiming as precise anymore, hadn’t been for one hour or so, but long hours of restless fighting to preserve his life would do that to a man no matter his strength. And so he just keeps waving his blade around, slashing what skin he can slash, blowing out what brain he can blow out, cutting what limb he can cut from the pirates attacking his ship.

He’d have loved to say it was not a regular occurrence anymore, since he had left his tragic destiny, but it would be untrue; battles like this one had been happening every time he crossed the oceans with his crew since he joined the Royal Navy.

Junhong thinks he’s getting old, what with the creaking knees and diminishing vision, and begins to get tired of this type of misfortunes. He keeps fighting though, because it’s not only his life that is at stake — he commands a ship of the line, he’s a leader to soldiers, of course he has to keep fighting! And that’s what he barks at his subordinates, endlessly; _“Keep fighting! Keep fighting!”_

God, he is exhausted. Merely managing to jump on the bulwarks to avoid a blow aimed to his calves, Junhong grips the mainmast’s ropes and launches himself in the air, swiftly falling back on his feet behind the man and sinking his sword in between his shoulders’ blades.

 

He should not be surprised he can not recognise any of the pirates he is battling against, after all a long time has passed and most of the equipage members were already quite old for their line of work when he left. He doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or relieved about it. Still, fighting off the crew of the _Bloody Greed_ brings back some odd memories.

Junhong, when he first saw the black flags and majestic lines of the galleon in the horizon, thought about seeing Youngjae — now, he wonders where he is. If he’s here, on the deck, killing some of his brave sailors; or if he already headed to their quarters, trying to see if there’s anything to steal. He wonders, too, if Youngjae is even still alive. Is the _Bloody Greed_ still owned by his family? Who would have taken over if Youngjae died in battle?

There’s irony somewhere, in this situation. After all, the story is repeating itself all over again — they met this way, their fathers affronting each other on a ship of honest belonging; and their parents fought for the same things they’re fighting now, and Junhong is probably going to die the same way his father died.

He spares a thought for his lovely mother then, that he had never been able to see again after leaving Hurtlepool on his twelfth birthday — she had already passed away when he had escaped the pirates’ hold on him; Miss Hopkins told him she let herself die of chagrin when the letter announcing the _Dailies_ had been demolished came to her. Junhong hadn’t been surprised by the news, though still a little saddened.

 

Junhong has often wished he could have had alternatives to the choices he made — a chance of keeping the ones he loved safe, of saving a few more people and deceiving a few less. But things went as they were supposed to go, and given the opportunity, he isn’t sure he would have done any differently — so his life went on, devoid of love or simple affection; and all he had been able to do was letting his soulless carcass float adrift, carried by the sheer force of wind and waves.

For all that had been said and done, and after all the time that had passed, it’s a surprise that it is the sole thought of Youngjae that still keeps him restless at night.

 

It’s cold. The wind feels so cold on his skin; and how did someone even manage to cut through his leather vest? His chest is bleeding abundantly, reinforcing Junhong’s belief that he’s going to die there, in the end.

 _“Ah,”_ he thinks bitterly, _“what the hell, at least it will be a hero’s death at sea. What better.”_

Another head cut off, and yet another blow to his left arm. There aren’t many more men standing — this is it, they have already lost. The few survivors can stop fighting now, it’s pretty obvious their beautiful ship will go up in flames and so will they.

 

Junhong tries to get back toward the heart of the battle, where three of his men are encircled by their vile enemy; he doesn’t manage to get too close, however, as a dark figure suddenly jumps into his path. Surprised, Junhong takes a step back; but soon he feels a hard punch to his face and gets propelled backward.

Now laying on his back, the man tries to refocus his blurry vision but he has to squint as the sun is blinding him with its dazzling light. A shadow falls upon his face, covering the sunlight from his eyes, but Junhong still can’t see who is the other man and he is growing a little frustrated.

“Look who’s there. Nice to see you again... Commander Choi?”

And suddenly Junhong understands; there’s no need for a face, for he could recognise this voice amongst thousands of others, for he had long been dreaming of hearing it again. Guess Youngjae isn’t dead after all.

Junhong doesn’t know what to say, and he’s too weak to try to fight back, so he just stays immobile on the deck and stares blankly at the familiar shadow above him. Youngjae is growing restless under the mute attention though, switching his weight from one hip to another, before putting one of his feet to Junhong’s throat and pressing down on his windpipe. The younger man gasps weakly; thinks it’s quite a reckless move, it seems hasty and impulsive, as though the _Bloody Greed’s_ Captain lost his control for an instant. Which, considering, isn’t much of an enjoyable thought and does nothing to let Junhong think he has a chance of getting out of this alive.

Youngjae hesitantly backs his foot away after a moment, his own reaction apparently surprising him too. Junhong can’t see his face because of the blazing sun behind his head, but he knows the captain is staring right back at him.

The latter raises a hand to the air then, his head still down peering at Junhong’s face, and curls his fingers into a fist — all sounds suddenly stop, the endless crashing of the waves against the vessels’ hull the only remnant of what used to be. Junhong shouldn’t be impressed by Youngjae’s control on his hand men, and yet, here he is.

“Ceasing battle,” he announces loudly. “Tie the survivors to masts, steal what’s good to steal, and burn the ship down. I’m taking a prisoner.”

The pirates cheer loudly at their captain’s words, though for which part exactly, Junhong can’t be sure.

 

He’s being forcefully pulled up on his feet and away from the ground then, and realises his blood is just pouring out of his chest now; Youngjae passes one of the younger man’s arm around his neck and keeps it in place with his hand, sneaking his other arm around his back to grip at the other’s waist. Junhong has a bitter feeling of _déjà vu_ as he is half-carried, half-dragged to the _Bloody Greed_ via a wooden plank, Youngjae’s hip rubbing continuously at his side. Of course, he would have to remember the first time they fought, too. How any more ironic could this situation get?

Junhong chances a glance toward Youngjae; now that the sun is out of his eyes he can see — the man is as beautiful as he ever has been, though years of hard work at sea ruined his soft skin. In place are thin wrinkles and age spots beginning to form; laugh lines shows around his lips and frowning marks on his forehead — it’s evident Youngjae has had a life full of many different emotions, all engraved into his face like a visitors’ book of his memories.

Junhong feels the strange need to kiss every single inch of skin on Youngjae’s body, to see if age changed the rest of his figure, and to rediscover him completely. He wants to feel and love all there is in the captain; but the glare Youngjae sends him in reply to his own staring cuts this line of thought straight.

“Admiring the view, Junhong?” Youngjae whispers, a caustic, biting edge to it, “Don’t get too excited so soon, you’ve got a lot to see, still.”

 

Junhong hadn’t noticed they already reached the dungeon of the _Bloody Greed;_ but as Youngjae carelessly throws him in one of the cell, it all comes crashing back onto him. The awful smell of rotting flesh, shit, despair, only strengthened by the overwhelming heat of the bilge — he had only spent some months here, over thirty years ago, but he still remembers the atrociousness of it all.

In the far end of the room, rats are enjoying a gourmet meal on the corpse of a lieutenant — the rags of his uniform the last testament of what the man used to be.

The commander remembers then, all the ceremonials and long discourses back in England, all the promises of revenge after the _Bloody Greed’s_ pirates had started attacking the Royal Navy’s warships in mass a few years ago. Youngjae had been acting so reckless; the vessels of His Highness were dangerous opponents, even to the beautiful galleon — it was a twist of sheer luck the _Bloody’s_ hull could still support its huge masts after undergoing so much damage throughout the years.

Many warships had been sunk by its equipage, propelling them to the top of the King’s “to slaughter” list; and more searching parties had been sent after them. It was a dangerous game Youngjae had been playing with England’s royals, and Junhong couldn’t help but believe it all had been done to find him, to put him back in this miserable cell. Junhong finds himself praying for his chest wound to fester, just so he can die quickly and painlessly of a fever.

Youngjae grabs him by the epaulettes of his commander’s uniform, forcing him to sit up against the iron railing, and crouches down in front of him.

“Home sweet home, runaway boy.” The elder offers him a cruel smirk.

Junhong has trouble keeping his eyes open and his head straight, head spinning from all the blood he has lost, and eventually lets it slide to the side, too exhausted to keep fighting against its weight. The pirate, though, is obviously having none of it; he grips his chin and forces the poor officer to look at him.

“No, no, no, no. That’s not how it’s going to work, wake up.”

The elder punches him then, twice, and Junhong spits on the floor the blood that had gathered in his mouth, before trying to crawl away. He raises one of his arm between his body and Youngjae’s, at first to protect himself from any other blows — but, unaware, his palm eventually comes in contact with the other’s shirt, and his fingers mingle on their own accord around the laces of its collar. He realises he is gripping at the elder’s chest as though he’s scared to see him go, and wonders if he has already completely lost his mind.

“That’s more like it.” Youngjae grabs Junhong by the hair, forcing his head back; the younger has no choice but open his mouth then, his breathing coming in short, painful puffs, blood oozing out of his mouth and choking him. The elder admire his handiwork with a hint of madness to it, his eyes bright in amazement — and really, that’s what catches Junhong, pulls him in.

Youngjae throws his head against one of the iron railing, and they both hear something break in the younger’s skull. He does not stop though, does not slacken his grip — he keeps going, hitting repeatedly the poor man’s head against the prison’s bar, until his vision blacks out and he can only faintly register the feeling of pain, and still smell his own blood in his nose.

Then, all of a sudden, it stops; Youngjae’s hand is gone from his hair, and he stands back up on his feet, away from him.

“I will make you pay, Junhong. For what you’ve done to me, to my father, and to my crew; for all those years you’ve kept on lying to me, and all those years I’ve had to keep on without you. For what you gave me and took back from me. I will make you pay for everything.”

 

And on this last note, Youngjae is gone from the cells; Junhong doesn’t see the point of fighting for his consciousness anymore and gives in, letting his torso fall to the ground with a thud. As darkness slowly overtakes him, Junhong can’t help but notice the elder’s eyes are still the same as they were: innocent, twinkling and full of mirth; and a smile pulls softly at his lips.

Youngjae had not changed at all, and neither did Junhong; in the end, they were both still what they had always been — friends, lovers, and enemies.

**Author's Note:**

> References:  
> 
> 
>   * Bloody Greed (galleon): [back](http://vignette2.wikia.nocookie.net/pirates/images/c/c4/British_galleon.png/revision/latest?cb=20130112085908), [full view](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/ea/Galleon-spanish.jpg), [private cabins](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/ed/01/b6/ed01b65df411e7a70c268a1fcc31694f.jpg)
>   * Dailies (argosy): [one](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/68/Argosy_Lemal.jpg), [two](http://www.argosycruises.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/Lady-Washington.jpg)
>   * Quotes: English translations of [De l’amitié, Les Essais, Montaigne](http://www.bribes.org/trismegiste/es1ch27.htm)
> 

> 
> Hope you enjoyed this story! Tags were really hard to find. I wanted to tag it as "fluff" so bad (for the bonding moments in Youngjae's cabin,) but I didn't quite dare to considering the ending — which, by the way, [Bikki](http://chawans.tumblr.com) chose!  
> If you had one; I'd be really glad if you told me what was your favourite scene :)  
> Thank you for reading!


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